


The shape of my name on his lips

by virtuous_contract



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Crisis Core: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Anal Fisting, Anal Sex, BDSM, Betaed, Consensual Kink, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fisting, M/M, POV First Person, POV Zack Fair, PWP, Porn with Feelings, Punisment, Safe Sane and Consensual, Spanking, Zangeal - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:34:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24771718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virtuous_contract/pseuds/virtuous_contract
Summary: I watched Angeal as he spoke my name. Every movement of his lips, the parting of them, the hint of tongue as it brushed the roof of his mouth, aroused me.
Relationships: Zack Fair/Angeal Hewley
Comments: 9
Kudos: 29





	The shape of my name on his lips

**Author's Note:**

> I am proud to say this has been betaed by the competent, charming and patient [ Cate Sith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CateSith).
> 
> It may or may not have been written as a way to give Zack everything he wants that he's not getting in my other fic. It may or may not have been a writing exercise. This does not detract form Angeal not even being my type. Well, he seems to be Zack's type anyway, I guess that's what matters in context.

I watched Angeal as he spoke my name. Every movement of his lips, the parting of them, the hint of tongue as it brushed the roof of his mouth aroused me. I could hear his love for me when he said it. I could understand the way he saw me in the tone of his voice, even if it was just the one syllable.

When I looked into his eyes, I understood even more. It made me ache with want; to be the person he saw me as. I wanted it for the both of us. To mold myself to his will could have been bad, but I loved the person he wanted me to be, and keeping myself to his standards made it so easy to love myself too.

Perhaps it would have been better if I could have found another way to love myself, but I had been so young when Angeal came into my life. I never had a chance to find another way, and I never had regrets about it. I let him shape me knowingly, so that I could carry the imprint he left on me forever, like my most precious memento. I wanted to carry his memory in my every breath, for as long as I lived.

With these thoughts going through my head, I crawled closer to him on the sofa, my eyes fixed on him in want and curiosity.

I could only manage an “Mmm?” in reply to him calling me.

His face broke into a wide grin, clearly reading me like an open book. With lazy limbs I climbed onto his lap, straddling it so that I could palm the broad shoulders, the strong arms, the firm muscles of his chest that brought me so much comfort through the thin fabric that was separating us. It was enough to make me stir in my shorts. No, that’s not entirely true, it stirred so much more in me than that.

His fingertips were stroking long lines up and down my arms. “Have you been a good pup or a bad pup today?” he asked with a seductive smile dancing on those lips that I loved so much.

“Yes, most definitely one of those two,” I mumbled, distracting myself with my own fingers on his face, his jaw, his lips. I loved being close like this. I could smell his scent, earthy and grounding, and the heat of his body that threatened to melt me into him.

Angeal leaned in and let his breath out over my ear, sending shivers down my spine that landed right in my groin, winding the unseen spring that had been resting during the day.

“Which one, Pup?”

Angeal made his lips brush against the shell of my ear, making me shiver more, and I felt rattled, so easily lost in his devoted attention. To the question he asked, there was no wrong answer. He was merely asking me what I was in the mood for, and I was finding it unusually hard to make up my mind. If I’d say ‘bad’, he’d bring us back to the nostalgia of us being new together, of him being my teacher, of him carefully picking me apart and putting me back together, stronger and better than I’d been before.

If I’d say ‘good’ we would join as equals, just the way we were now. He would bend for me every bit as much as I for him. Either way, I’d soon be drowning in the pleasure he would bestow upon me. The thought of it made me hard, leaking with anticipation. To show him, I thrust my hips softly against his stomach, feeling each ridge of his muscles catching my erection through my shorts, and I moaned quietly at the sensation.

“I’ve been bad, Angeal,” I whispered and licked his bottom lip, working myself up so that my breath got caught in my throat. He tasted so good, and my mind raced with eagerness to taste more.

“Have you now, Pup? Tell me what you did.” Angeal was smiling, but desire was seeping into his warm brown eyes, giving him a hungry, restless air that I knew was reserved only for me.

I pulled at the memories of the first time I undressed in front of Angeal and asked him to touch me, to pleasure me. I remembered the thrill, anticipation, the nervousness, the tension, the fear of being rejected. I let the memory paint my face as I lowered my eyes and said, “I’ve had dirty thoughts about my mentor.”

“Did you now, Pup? What have you been thinking?” Angeal’s hands were squeezing my shoulders and petting my cheek in reassurance, though I needed none.

“When we sparred, I felt my mentor’s weight on top of me and I wanted to stay there, pinned down by him.” I nearly whispered, still keeping my eyes bashfully low. “I imagined him forcefully undressing me and shoving into me dry, just so that I could feel him more. I know I shouldn’t have, but I wanted it. I should be punished for thinking such improper thoughts about him.”

Angeal heard my confession, which certainly had been real, if delayed by years. He let up a warm, muted laughter which rumbled deeply in his chest. I lifted my face and tried to close the distance for a kiss, but his hands on my shoulders stopped me.

“Bad puppies don’t get rewarded with kisses. Over my lap.” Angeal’s large hands were on my hips, arranging me in his lap. They were so lovely there, I hoped they would never let me go. 

I was hardly uncomfortable lying in his lap, and Angeal gave me long, languid strokes from the top of my head, over my back, across my backside and down my legs. They were like the calm before the storm, and they seemed to charge my body with expectation. His hands left me, but only to slip off my shorts and underwear. The shorts got caught on my erection and I raised my hips to help him move the waistband around it. He hummed softly when he purposefully let his fingers skim my length. I whimpered at the feather-light touch. It never ceased to surprise me how little it took for his touches to incite the most extreme responses in me.

Angeal’s hands started moving with more intent over my body, squeezing blood into the muscles of my backside and the back of my thighs, preparing them. His large, calloused hands were hardened both from wielding a sword and from his gardening. I felt like they held all of me. They seemed impossibly strong, and it always humbled me that they were still able to touch me so generously. I leaned into it, my perpetually tight muscles appreciating every aided compression and I let it show by not withholding any sighs or moans.

His hands came to a halt and one settled with a comforting pressure on the small of my back and one disappeared from my body. Moments of quietness followed, building the anticipation. His thumb drew small circles on my back and just as the hairs at the back of my neck rose, the first open-handed blow landed with a loud crack on my backside. It wasn’t a warning, not anything I could ignore, but it was far from my threshold for pain. It was perfect. It made my skin blossom with heat that sank into my body where it spread all over. I arched my back, lifting my backside in a silent ask for more.

He let me yearn for it, carefully caressing me, but then his hand disappeared again, and an imposing silence fell over the room before the next blow. It was just as hard, landing on my other cheek. Then the blows came in a slow rhythm that allowed me just enough time to keep up with the rise and fall of the sensations they caused. It seemed to me that his blows increased the amount of blood in my body, making it push against the walls of my veins as it sped up. It warmed me, made me delightfully dizzy in time with the increasing endorphins that joined my rushing blood.

He paused again to caress me. The touch felt different now against the roughed-up nerves. I couldn’t follow his touches as easily, and even though he moved his palms in an even pace over me, they seemed to flicker in and out of existence on my skin in a way that forced my attention. I groaned lightly, feeling pre-cum leaking out of me and staining his worn cargo pants under me.

“Good puppy. You’re taking it so well for me.” Angeal praised in his deep, comforting voice that had always steadied me, grounded me, and now aroused me to no end.

“I wanna do better.” I mumbled and turned my head onto my folded arms.

With a low hum of approval, his hand lifted again and came down, this time significantly harder. It made me jolt and stilted my breath.

“Endure it for me, pup,” he said, his voice sounding rougher than a moment ago.

“Please…” at this point there was no mistaking it, I was begging for more. And Angeal gave it to me.

The rhythm of his blows became erratic, and it felt like every blow left the sensation of his hand. The wait for the next blow seemed impossibly long and the impact so short, yet accentuated by the loud noise that died dully between the walls of our flat. After a dozen blows, I was whimpering, not only from the pain, but from me imagining his hands on me everywhere at the same time. I greedily wanted to feel even more of him. I selfishly wished there were more of him so that he could take more of my body at once, but these stinging handprints were a realistic runner-up to my insatiable desire for him. Gods, I wanted Angeal so much.

His hands slid over me again, one hand gliding into my hair and gripping it, pulling at it with a steady fist. One examined the searing skin, nudging my legs apart to skim the still untouched inside of my thighs, underlining the difference between beaten and un-beaten skin. It was exquisite, and I revelled in it.

“How’s that, puppy?” his warm voice came to me through the distance of pleasure.

I could only manage an indecisive groan in reply. How could I decide on the next thing I wanted when anything but stopping would inevitably bring me more joy than words could describe?

“Don’t stop. Do anything, just don’t stop, please, gods Angeal…” I rambled, amazed that I could manage that much cohesion.

I could feel as much as hear the rumble of his laughter, and then he did something I didn’t expect. He leaned forward, grabbed the remote for the TV and turned it on.

“What?!” I squeaked in surprise and offence.

“Patience, puppy. Patience.” Amusement laced Angeal’s voice when he dug for the lube hidden between the sofa cushions where it always was.

I sank back down in slight confusion, but I trusted him to not leave me unsatisfied. After all, Angeal had always, always made anything he asked of me worthwhile in the end.

The narrator of the gardening program on the TV provided stark contrast to Angeal’s slicked fingers when they started circling my entrance. I was so ready, I wanted it, needed it. Even though we both knew I didn’t really need stretching after the years of our regular, vigorous sex, Angeal would go into these fits of obsession sometimes. He’d stretch me ever so carefully, perhaps to remind himself, or both of us, how it used to be when we were new. He seemed to be in one of those fits now, unhurriedly spreading the swelling in my backside to the muscles of my rim, softly pinching the muscles between two fingers and pushing blood into them until it too was part of the throbbing me.

I couldn’t help but to whine impatiently about it, but if I got too loud, too impatient, suddenly his hand would land a new blow, making me jolt and yelp. He would softly hush me, never letting me come down from my arousal. He added to it excruciatingly slowly. I thought I would expire there, under his hands, and truly lose my mind in this strangely domestic scene with its obscene little twist.

When he deemed my entrance swollen enough, two fingers entered me. I could feel them pulling in different directions, and when I whimpered from the much-welcomed pressure of them, his hand on my back returned to calm me. I tried to shift my weight to get some friction against him under me, and he let me, as long as it was slow and small enough not to distract him. Somehow, to be allowed made it seem all the sweeter, and I longed to touch him too, to give him back even a fraction of the enjoyment he gave me.

I could feel a third finger being added, and I grew even more impatient. This was usually when the stretching was deemed to be enough for his lovely, hot cock to enter me. I couldn’t help but to think about it, the endless moment where I could feel him against me but before he’d entered me. That moment always seemed to hold the potential to end my life and start it up again. My hips wiggled in anticipation, longing to feel the thrill of him filling me again. Even after hundreds of times he’d entered me the thought was still as potent as ever.

“You’re stretching so beautifully for me,” Angeal murmured. His voice betrayed his disinterest for whatever was on the TV.

I grinned into my arms, happy that he was pleased with me, and I let his name spill with longing over my lips. I wanted more of him, so much that even taking his name in my mouth eased the pressure I felt building within me a little.

“Can I stretch you more?” Angeal spoke hoarsely.

“Yeah,” I whispered through the eager daze, between my heavy breaths. 

I knew what he wanted now, and the gods knew I wanted it too. He turned off the TV, tossed the remote carelessly onto the coffee table, and turned all of his attention on me again. Though I knew it was silly, I selfishly felt pleased by it. I could feel his pinkie finger joining the three others, and I wanted it so bad. The pressure of Angeal’s fingers was so sweet. Even though I felt full and stretched I wanted to be fuller. A lot fuller. I wanted the man beyond the limitations of my own body, and we were both aware of it. He’d never hurt me though. I knew I was always safe with him. Maybe even frustratingly so.

I arched my back up and moaned prettily to try to urge him on, but he took his time, twisting the fingers around inside me. I could already feel my flesh clutching at his fingers, making them catch the sensitive walls even though they were slicked with lube, but it felt so good. All the tugs, all the pressure, it was a constant reminder of him being inside me, invading me, infecting me with never-ending pleasure. Fuck.

“Fuck. More!” I seethed, failing to feel any embarrassment at my pleading and begging.

I wanted it so much I felt myself starting to shake, and everything seemed to throb so hard it bordered on discomfort. I couldn’t help thrashing around and Angeal’s palm swatted a series of blows so hard I could feel the shockwaves of them hitting his fingers. Pain and pleasure exploded in me and I cried out brokenly. My breaths left me in stuttering, dry sobs, and when Angeal’s free hand moved over my abused skin it stung nearly more than the blows had.

“Thrash around again like that and I’ll do something worse.” Angeal said, sounding absolutely merciless. “Move forward. Slowly.”

I did as I was told. I got up on all fours and started crawling off his lap, whimpering at how my movements created new sensations from Angeal’s fingers, which were still making movements of their own. They pressed into my prostate, and with every press my muscles threatened to stop working, but I managed. I lay my folded arms on the wide, padded armrest of the sofa. We’d chosen a new one when I moved in, one that was fuck-friendly. I managed to flash a quick smile before the next assault on my prostate made me whimper again.

“Pup, remember you can safeword-out any time.” Angeal said as he shifted behind me and gave one of my searing cheeks a kiss.

“I remember. I’m good. I’m green. Fuck me please.” I rambled in my excitement, assuming that Angeal wanted a better angle for what was going to do next. I really didn’t want to wait. I wanted my body rocked with his fist seated deep inside me. I wanted to be impaled by him. I wanted him so deep inside that my head would explode from it.

I breathed a blissful sigh when I felt his thumb brush against my rim and I simply couldn’t stop pressing myself back against him. In a split second, his arm wrapped under me to grab my cock and squeeze it at the base so painfully the world went blurry with tears collecting in the corners of my eyes but not yet spilling.

“What did I just tell?” Angeal’s hand was crushing and I pulled in a deep breath to scream, but he let up on the pressure before it came to that.

“No thrashing,” I managed, full of regret, on an unsteady breath. He let me go and I sobbed with relief.

I could hear as well as feel a low, approving rumble in Angeal’s chest. He was leaning over me, stroking me again, soothing me in preparation for his thumb.

“Deep breaths now, Pup.” His voice was steady, commanding, but it had warmth in it too. It washed over me, hypnotizing me.

I made myself relax, stay still, and breathe deeply. Angeal rewarded me by starting to work his thumb into me, slow and steady. The strain of it had me sobbing desperately. It took so much to stay relaxed, but I did my best for Angeal, to be good for him. I felt like my mind was stretched to its limits just as much as my muscles, and that pushed everything else out of existence until there was only me and Angeal. 

His free hand drifted to the sore skin of my backside, squeezed it, teased it until my entire core was a throbbing container for the pressure he’d built in me.

“You’re being so good. You’re taking me so well.”

His words made me clench down on him, and he had to pause, at which I whined. A deep breath let him continue.

“Almost there,” he whispered and let his palm stray to my dribbling erection again, making me cry out for him.

“Good Pup, you made it. You’re such a good Puppy,” he murmured with his lips against my backside. 

I could feel his hardness against the back of my thighs, but I didn’t dare push back into it.

“C’mere,” he leaned forward to ask for my left arm. He took my hand and brought it behind me so that I could touch his wrist, feel how the rest of his hand disappeared into me. Black spots invaded my vision from the staggering sensory confirmation. I carefully twisted around to see him. He looked nearly as strained as I felt, his face painted in arousal, his eyes heavily lidded, his wide chest rising and falling rapidly and red tinting his face. I gave him my breath, my heart and my soul.

I couldn’t think of anything but him, and I let his name spill from my lips repeatedly, begging, pleading, praying, worshipping. I could see a curl form on his mouth and then he started to move his hand inside me. He twisted it so that his knuckles brushed against my prostate, making me cry out and jolt with every movement. Then he started those small little punches that moved all of me until I was mewling and crying into the armrest, holding on to his free hand as if it was the only thing keeping me together.

Just before I thought I couldn’t take any more, he stilled to praise me, to whisper my name. With a single finger he touched my dribbling shaft, provoking a full bodied, uncontrollable shudder. He reached forward and threaded his hand into my hair, grabbing a fistful with a lush, even pull. He pulled my head back, lifting it off the sofa, straining me, stretching me out, making me support myself with my hand on the armrest.

“I want to hear you,” he whispered hoarsely and bit teasingly into the side of my waist.

I hummed at his request until he started moving his hand inside me again, exerting incredible pressure against my insides, building his movements. Though I tried to stay quiet, knowing that he wouldn’t let me scream for too long, he had me wailing in no time. My lungs were burning, the air constantly caught in my throat and my vision blurred with tears dripping from the overbearing, sweet strain of everything.

“Ready, Pup?” Angeal grunted and tugged my hair a little extra to pull at my awareness.

“Yes!” I hissed and managed a deep breath to prepare myself for him. For everything that he would give me.

His free arm came around my stomach to curl his hand around my neglected erection and he gripped it firmly. He let his fist dig into me, shaking me to the very core. I could feel myself cramp up around him, and a scream was slowly but surely rising inside me alongside the impossible pressure in my groin. I tried to let it out on only air, but then he started pumping me so hard it was nearly painful. I did scream. He built me up until I screamed at the top of my lungs.

“Come for me, Zack,” he commanded, and before I even registered the meaning my body was thrown into violent contortions.

My scream abruptly caught in my throat when I came. I shook and jolted helplessly but he held me firm, kept me safe, told me how good I was, how beautiful I was until my ragged breaths were flowing evenly again. Though my muscles were agonizingly sore, the most painful idea was still the loss of Angeal’s touch. I could feel that my body was not yet spent.

“Don’t stop Angeal. Give me more.” I whispered fervently and pressed his hand against my stomach.

“Please, gods please, Angeal,” I begged desperately when he didn’t respond right away.

“Alright Pup, I’ll milk you now,” his words washed over me, granting me a pleasured shiver in the short moment of relative stillness before he started moving his hand inside me more intently again.

It was so overwhelming, the previous strain of the stretch was simply forgotten. Now it was replaced by dull pleasure and pain which was the only thing my overloaded nervous system could manage. He pumped his hand in sets that built in speed and pressure, guiding my body expertly to the next release. He let me breathe and soak up his murmured endearments, the reassurance of his hand on my stomach, his generosity and kindness until I was a slobbering, screaming mess. I was almost shocked by how much he could make me feel.

This build-up was slower, and I could feel every muscle in my body being wound up as if in slow motion, until they were at maximum tension. Then they tensed beyond their capabilities, until I was not only humming with tension, but positively quaking.

“That’s it, Puppy, let it come. Come. Be good for me again.”

It was his voice that pushed me over the edge. It felt like my body shrank into itself before erupting with jet streams shooting out, accompanied by helpless, broken screams. Every convulsion washed me in my love for Angeal, and it happened over and over until the world faded to an impossibly soft, comforting, dark, still and quiet.

I tried to say his name, but my body wouldn’t respond. I managed a deep breath and tried again. “Angeal?”

“Hmm?” I felt him reach over me tostroke my hair and down over my back.

We were still there on the sofa. I reached my hand down under me, touching the obscenely soaked and stained cushions.

“You can pull out now,” I said, aiming past the fog of my brain.

He stroked the small of my back and pulled out ever so slowly on every breath that left my lungs. So tentative and careful. So loving. I couldn’t help but to whine from the loss when his hand left me. It was always such a curious feeling, like a separate mourning of the flesh.

I pushed myself away from the armrest so that my back would come to rest against his chest and his arms embraced me. I could feel his content from having brought me such pleasure seeping into me, but I could also feel his glorious hard-on against my still burning backside. I knew our little power-play was over. He could never keep the façade of it up after such a monumental release. He would be like putty in my hands, wrapped around my little finger, hell, around my heart, where we both wanted him.

My hands drifted behind my back, to his fly and I undid it.

“Mark me,” I urged, letting my willingness seep into my voice.

I sank my face down onto the sofa and reached my hands back to spread myself open.

“Look at what you did,” I said and grinned.

I heard his breaths pick up and small grunts emerge as he no doubt had started stroking himself.

“Look at where you were,” I dug my fingers into myself and pulled myself apart.

“Fuck,” Angeal grunted and pressed his erection against my backside to slick it.

“You can have me,” I said and tickled my insides, intent on showing Angeal every deprived part of me.

“Fuck!” Angeal snapped, more at himself than me.

I smiled triumphantly when I heard his resolve break.

His hand found my hip again and he shoved himself inside me alongside my fingers. His heat was divine inside me, the crushing grip of his hand a blessing, and his frenzied thrusts into my loose hole sent me into another delirious rapture.

He pulled out and with my fingers still in place, I kept myself open for him, so that he could anoint me in his thick, white seed. It burned and stung against my raw skin and I kept myself on display for him until he slumped back on his heels with an astounded sigh. I smiled blissfully when I let myself sink down into the sofa. His hands took mine and brought them forward, folding his and my arms together as he laid down on top of me.

“I love you Angeal.” I murmured happily.

“Me too, Zack. Me too.” He said and sealed our words with a kiss.


End file.
